


Wear No Disguise for Me

by objectlesson



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Banter, Biting, Comeplay, First Time, HORSEPLAY I think Arthur would call it, M/M, Marking, Master/Servant, Power Dynamics, Roughhousing, Stripping, but not pony play I promise it's not that oh god, very intricate rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27845662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Arthur neveraskedto be obsessed with Merlin’s stupid little neckerchief. It justhappened.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 393





	Wear No Disguise for Me

**Author's Note:**

> So Blake and I finished Merlin and were TRAUMATIZED so we decided to write each other fluff fics yesterday to feel better. This is mine. I wear a bandana like every day of my life for #security so I feel Merlin on the fashion front. Also, I didn't tag dub con for this because its very clearly consensual but there are some like...CNC/playfighting elements that aren't super well negotiated, so I wanted to mention it for those of you who are sensitive to that. OH and the title is from the Erasure song Always which is a cultural landmark SO if you've never listened to it or seen the video please please please go do it because you're not a whole person without this song and video in your life imo. 
> 
> Anyway! Enjoy, I'm obsessed with these two so buckle up for more, I have p l a n s.

_—_

There's a bit of cream-colored fluff on it right now, likely from the linens. And then, an oil stain shaped somewhat indistinctly like a rabbit, if Arthur squints. And of course, there are about a hundred little burrs snarled in the crude fabric as well, because he and Merlin are hiding in a brushy thicket while a group of idiot bandits crash around in the underbrush, inexpertly waving swords in what they think is probably a very threatening manner. 

Merlin squirms and the faded burgundy fabric folds, distorting the rabbit shape. Now it looks like a fried egg. Arthur would rub his finger into it but his hand is busy being clamped over Merlin’s mouth so he doesn’t say anything which might betray their whereabouts. He holds him fast, gaze skittering between the bandits’ fruitless chase, and Merlin’s neck. 

Well. Not his neck, exactly, but the infuriating scrap of fabric he wears knotted _around_ it all the time, like he’s got something to hide. The infuriating scrap of fabric Arthur thinks about constantly, and fantasizes aggressively about untying, or ripping off, or twisting around his palm twice to bring his knuckles up against Merlin’s Adam’s apple, chafing the probably very delicate skin there. 

He shakes his head, ripping his eyes back to bandits so that he can watch them through the thicket instead of studying Merlin’s clothes in prudent detail. It’s annoying. He doesn’t _want_ to care, or be distracted by such trifling matters as what Merlin wears around his fucking _neck._

But when it comes down to it, Arthur never _asked_ to be obsessed with Merlin’s stupid little neckerchief. It just _happened._

The bandits are incompetent and possibly drunk, and they end up thundering off to investigate a snapping sound in the distance, and leaving them be. Arthur lets out a sharp breath and releases Merlin. “Well then,” he says, shoving him into the bush before standing and picking a few burs out of his jodhpurs. “I suppose we will have to make it back on foot. I assume the horses took off to the stables.” 

Merlin shakes his head. “No, they’re grazing nearby.” 

Arthur scoffs at him. Merlin always does things like this, speculates with such unshakable confidence its hard not to believe him. “And what makes _you_ so sure?” he asks, fists on his hips. 

Merlin shrugs and grins, and it’s like sunshine cracking through a clouds, brilliant and too bright and Arthur _hates_ the way Merlin smiles sometimes, hates the helpless, pinned down way it makes him feel. “Um…animal instinct. I don't know,” he says after a few seconds before adding, “Remember, it’s _I_ who spends time with your horses and cares for them. You just climb on and ride.” 

“Oh, so you’re telling me you can _sense_ where they are because you pick up their shit?” Arthur asks, cocking an eyebrow and offering a hand to Merlin to haul him back to his feet. Once he's at eye level again, Arthur flicks at the stain on his bandana. “You are _covered_ in burrs, by the way.” 

Merlin looks down, examining his neckerchief with mild disdain. “I suppose I am. But that’s only because _you_ tackled me into that awful tar weed. There were plenty of _non-_ sticky plants we could have hidden in.” 

“I like to make things difficult for you, Merlin, it’s my primary goal in life, as you’re well aware of. I have much time to devote to it between council meetings and training my knights, and, I don’t know, _ruling Camelot.”_

Merlin does not rise to the barb, though, because he is too busy plucking prickly things from his clothing with careful fingers and depositing them on the ground at the same time he’s weaving onward through the trees, apparently to where he can _sense their horses._ Arthur has no choice but to follow him, and think about the rabbit shaped oil stain, and what it felt like to have the wide, soft, warm splay of Merlin’s mouth beneath his glove. 

“Why do you wear that?” he asks eventually, hooking his finger into the back of Merlin’s neckerchief and tugging it once he catches up to him. “Do you have some hideous scar on your throat you’re ashamed of?” 

Merlin snorts. “No, my throat is perfectly normal and unscarred.” He sticks a burr into Arthur’s hair. “I just get cold.” 

The wary half-twist of his mouth makes Arthur’s stomach flutter. He hates feeling like Merlin is lying to him. He frowns, finger combing the burr from his fringe. “You wear it in the summer, too,” he adds, shooting Merlin a critical look. 

Merlin’s eyes narrow then, his lips pursing like even _he_ didn’t realize the neckerchief was a year-round affliction. “Well, in the summer it protects the back of my neck from getting burnt when I’m spending _hours_ out at the stable yard grooming _your_ horses.” 

Arthur is then forced to think about Merlin’s preternaturally translucent skin flushing in the sun, and his treacherous gut knots up all over again. It _bothers_ him, he realizes, that he never sees this part of Merlin. That he’s perpetually covered by layers and layers, that he’s at least in part so awfully pale because he denies the _sun,_ (and Arthur), permission to witness him bared. Arthur chews the inside of his cheek, troubled because it’s not exactly like he can just —hold Merlin down and wrestle him out of his shirt. But he _could_ untie the neckerchief. It’s a removable, surmountable thing, and perhaps _that’s_ why he’s so singularly fixated on it. 

Without devoting more thought to the issue at hand, Arthur peels off his riding glove, licks his fingers, and lunges for Merlin. 

The air huffs out of him, but he’s ever wary from so many sneak attacks on Arthur’s part he manages to wriggle out of his grasp before Arthur can get the knot properly untied. “ _What_ are you trying to do? Did you just—do you want to _steal_ my neckerchief? I can _get you your own_ if you like it so much.” 

Arthur kicks out at his shin, frustrated at his petty failure. “I don't _like it,_ I don’t want some ugly scrap of dish-cloth tied around my neck all the time, I just don’t buy your story! I think there really _is_ a scar you’re hiding from me. Or perhaps an embarrassing birthmark. A third nipple, which _I_ hear is a mark of witchcraft. Maybe you’re frightened of being tried for sorcery, I don't know, it makes more sense than it being an _aesthetic_ choice.” 

He must have struck a nerve, somehow, because Merlin’s eyes flash, his full mouth set tight as he defiantly unties the knot and rips the scarf off to expose himself. 

And, sure enough, there is no scar, or mark, or anything unusual at all. Just very pale skin, somehow even paler than the rest of him, stretched tight and nearly blue over the shudder of his pulse. Arthur’s heart stops and his mouth floods and his eyes burn so intensely he has to tear them down to the forest floor, blood racing. “There, are you happy?” Merlin asks, tying it back on furiously. 

But Arthur does not have a chance to tell him _no, I’m not, I want more, I am always wanting more from you Merlin even though you are my servant and I could ask for anything I desired,_ because in that moment, their horses are trotting up to them, reins dangling, ears pricked forward. 

They mount up, and do not speak of it again. 

—-

Arthur is horrified to find that having his curiosity satiated has done nothing to diminish the strength of his obsession. In fact, he thinks about the neckerchief perhaps even _more_ now that he knows. Knows how pale the skin beneath it is, knows how silly and exposed and _vulnerable_ Merlin looks without the familiar folds of fabric concealing the bird-bones of his sternum. The image very persistently sticks in his mind, choosing to haunt him in highly inopportune moments, like when he is trying to fall asleep or when he is bathing and Merlin’s deft fingers are digging into his soapy scalp. He thinks about how warm the skin must be under the persistent draping, about how annoying it is that he’s _also_ never seen Merlin’s upper arms, or stomach, or thighs. He _really_ only possesses comprehensive knowledge of his hands and wrists and face, and that’s just—not enough for someone he spends every waking second with. Someone who sees _him_ naked each day. It’s a power imbalance, he decides, and maybe that’s why it upsets him so. He doesn’t _like_ feeling like his servant holds power over him, somehow. Like Merlin does not belong to him in full even though he should. 

So, he takes to trying to rip the stupid scarf off every chance he gets. 

It turns into a game of sorts, because Merlin is not as athletically challenged as he lets on and figures out what Arthur is up to right away. He learns how to twist from Arthur’s grip, or bat his hands away, or duck at the last minute so instead of coarse fabric Arthur just gets a fistful of soft black hair instead.

It’s fine. Arthur is prepared to retaliate with more clever tactics, if that’s what it takes to steal the infernal neckerchief once and for all and perhaps toss it into the fire, so that Merlin is forced to carry out his duties the rest of the day bare-necked and broken open before he can replace it. Arthur pulls a number of dirty tricks, such as sneaking up on Merlin and wrestling him to the ground, or spinning around and attacking his neck in the middle of getting his armor put on, so Merlin’s hands are full of chainmail and there’s nothing at all he can do to fight back. 

_Still,_ all he’s managed to do is untie it, or else rip it over his head, but in the end Merlin always _somehow_ manages to steal it back. “I’d think you were using _magic_ if I didn’t know better,” Arthur growls one time, sprawled out in his bed with Merlin struggling on top of him, their hands fisted in the scarf and yanking it back and forth in a brutal tug of war. Merlin jams one of his very bony knees into Arthur’s side though, and wins the prize back. “No,” he says, tying it back on with much flourish as Arthur clutches at his own ribcage, panting. “I’m just scrappy and quick.” 

“And _fired,”_ Arthur snaps, though he doesn't mean it. “This is going to bruise.” 

Merlin flops down beside him on the bed, the heat of his body so close Arthur could reach out and touch it. He makes a fist in his own tunic instead, to stop himself from wasting effort that _could_ be used to steal the neckerchief, which _should_ be the only reason he has to touch Merlin. 

“Serves you right,” Merlin murmurs, palming under the scarf to feel at his own throat, which is probably sore from so many days of being repeatedly yanked around in their squabbles. He’s quiet for a few long moments, and then he rolls over, propped up on his elbow to study Arthur. His cheeks are a bit flushed from their wrestling match, hair rucked up in the back, eyes the flickering, lively blue of a newly melted snow stream. All of it combined makes Arthur feel close to panic. “If you must know,” he says softly, smoothing his tongue over his lower lip in a flash of pink. “ I wear it because it makes me feel—secure, I guess. I don’t know. The bit I told you about the sun and the cold is _true,_ and it’s handy when there’s smoke or something smells awful in town, but even without all that, I just—I don’t know. I like to be covered there.” 

Hearing this should feel like a triumph, and not a terrible secret. It shouldn’t make Arthur’s gut tighten, his scalp prickle, but it does all the same. There’s so much he wants to say, so many _lines_ he wants to cross, one hundred unnamed feelings warring in his chest. _Thank you for letting me see,_ he thinks of answering, but then he remembers Merlin didn’t _let_ him, he forced it, he _took_ it, and that makes his insides wither and tighten and catch fire. “I knew it was something weird,” he settles on eventually. 

“It’s not _weird_ ,” Merlin says, making an incredulous face. “I don’t _need_ to wear it, it’s not a necessity. I just. I like it. I like knowing no one can touch my neck.” 

“What’s wrong with having your neck touched?” Arthur snaps, suddenly feeling quite defensive. 

“Nothing, per say. Except, I don’t know, if the one touching your neck has ill intent. Vampires. Jugular Slitting-Monsters.” 

Arthur has never heard of Jugular Slitting Monsters, and he’s fairly certain Merlin has made them up, but one can never be too sure. It seems like every week Merlin comes to Arthur claiming some new awful beast he saw in one of Gaius’s books is threatening Camelot, and usually he’s right, so perhaps there _is_ such a thing. “ _I_ don’t have ill intent, though. I’m not a vampire or a Jugula-whatever. I don't see what the issue is you seem to have with _me_ touching your neck.” 

Merlin widens his eyes. “And _I_ don’t see what the issue is you seem to have _with_ touching my neck.” 

That makes Arthur’s heart race, his face grow hot. He doesn’t appreciate it when Merlin exposes all the ways he’s hung up on him, the ways he studies him, catalogues his idiosyncrasies, obsesses over his flesh. In his own head, he can chalk it all up to teasing. But then Merlin _looks_ at him sometimes, cuts through him with those melting-ice eyes and strip every mad, stupid, filigree-encrusted thing Arthur does down to its bleeding core. 

There’s nothing to say, so instead he reaches out, grabs his neckerchief, and flips on top of him. 

This time, Merlin does not struggle. He goes still beneath Arthur save for his heart, which skitters under Arthur’s chest as he crushes their bodies together, knocks Merlin’s knees apart so he can fit between them, because somehow that feels like the right thing to do. He can’t _untie_ the neckerchief, because Merlin is lying on the knot, so instead he makes do with shoving it up around the cut of his jaw, to expose the tender white skin underneath. 

He can _see_ his pulse racing in the hollow of Merlin’s throat, and he forgets about the scarf entirely. All he can think about is _seeing_ him, his pallor, his vulnerability, this secret place where his blood speeds. Without thinking, he presses his own mouth to this place, and smooths his tongue over it. 

Merlin makes a sound. It’s very low and quite reflexive, and it makes Arthur’s cock twitch and thicken almost immediately. He razes his teeth over soft skin, fits his mouth into a seal and sucks,moved by the way Merlin is just _letting_ him, extending his throat to expose more skin, soft and pliant under the persistent, frantic grind of Arthur’s body.

His hand comes up to tangle in Arthur’s hair, scraping along his scalp and then moving to cup him firmly on the back of the neck, as if to keep him _trapped there,_ to prevent him from pulling away. Arthur detaches his mouth, gasping, swollen lips ghosting over the hinge of Merlin’s jaw as he asks him, “What are you doing?” 

Merlin laughs, the low rumble of it maddening under Arthur’s tongue. He licks again, chasing salt, heat, spice. “What am _I_ doing, I’m just—just lying here. I should be asking you what _you’re_ doing.” 

It’s a fair point, and Arthur is too far gone to dispute it. He sucks and kisses, determined to darken the skin here, to stain it. “I’m touching your neck,” he explains. 

Merlin whimpers, shifts against him, tightening his willowy thighs on either side of Arthur’s body. “Ok,” he murmurs. “Why?” 

Arthur is certain he won’t try to get away, now, so he lets go of the neckerchief to spread his hand over Merlins hip instead, cupping the narrow shape of it, digging his thumb into the fabric of his tunic before deciding he’d rather push up under it to the heat of skin, and doing just that. “Because,” he growls, stroking Merlin’s stomach, his ribcage, the ditch of his waist, everything velvet smooth and perfect. “Because you’re _my_ servant and I can touch you wherever I want to. I can see any part of you I want to see.” 

“Fuck,” Merlin says, the word ripped sudden and raw from his throat, his body thrumming beneath Arthur’s, no longer holding back but _alive,_ shifting and grinding, thin but strong, shivering but hot to the touch. Tears prickle at the back of Arthur’s throat, suddenly stinging in his eyes as he shudders in overwhelm, but he can’t _cry_ so he shuts them tight and _bites_ Merlin instead, groaning aloud at the cut-off hissing sound he elicits from his lips. “Arthur,” Merlin groans, sounding patient, or maybe moments away from fracture. It's hard to tell over the deafening roar of blood in Arthur’s ears. “Hold on—let me up for just a second so I can—“ he cuts himself off and curses then, letting go to reach for the hem of his tunic and trying to pull it up. “Do you want me to take this off?” he asks. 

_Oh._ Yes. Arthur very much wants that, so even though he _also_ very much wants the perfect, salty, fever-hot spread of Merlin’s skin under his teeth, he manages to let go long enough to allow him the space to make quick work of his tunic, and also, his neckerchief. He unties it and casts it aside, gaze hot and blue beneath the sweep of his lashes as he regards Arthur. “Is that what you wanted?” he asks, spreading out, making himself comfortable in Arthur’s sheets, so pretty and pale against the royal Camelot red. 

“It’s a good start,” Arthur grinds out, latching onto Merlin’s throat again, rubbing a greedy palm over his pale stomach dusted in dark, fine hair. He doesn't mean to be rough or demanding but he can’t _stop;_ he’s finally getting exactly what he wants, even if he didn’t _realize_ it was what he wanted until he had it. The way he felt about Merlin was a dark, muddy desire walled up behind impossibility, but now that the dam’s breaking and the river is rushing in he’s _drowning_ , he’s treading water, he’s _taking._ Luckily, Merlin is right there with him, pushing into his touch, arching his back, rubbing his face into Arthur’s hair and inhaling from him in great, shuddering lungfuls like _he’s_ wanted this, too. 

The thought makes Arthur go a bit mad. Every time Merlin’s eyes lingered on him a little too long, every time he tore his gaze away with his mouth twisted into a self-pitying frown, every time his cheeks colored suspiciously and Arthur felt like he was _missing_ some crucial information—they’re all suddenly thrust into the light. Merlin hides his skin, but he will bare it for _Arthur_. He’ll let _Arthur_ kiss it, and bite it, and mark it. He _does_ belong to him. 

Arthur sits back on his heels, dizzy and flushed as he brackets Merlin’s narrow hips between his knees. “What will you let me do to you?” he asks, voice nothing but a tremor. 

Merlin’s eyes flash, and he settles back into the sheets with his gaze roving up and down Arthur’s body, from his hungry mouth to his tented trousers, and it twists very low and hot in Arthur’s gut. There is _much_ he wants, but he doesn't have _names_ for things, he doesn't know where to start. He needs direction—needs Merlin to tell him. Otherwise he will come here like this, rutting against Merlin’s body while he sucks marks into the exposed planes of it. Merlin must sense his wavering confidence, because he reaches out, and thumbs over the line of Arthur’s jaw. “I am yours,” he says very clearly. “And you may do anything you want to me. Or, you may _take_ anything you want of me. I’m entirely yours, Arthur, and I have been since the moment I first saw you.” 

Arthur huffs out a breath and tips into Merlin, presses their brows together, sucks in the spice of his exhalations like he needs them to live. “You insulted me and tried to hit me, if I remember,” he whispers, staring at Merlin’s mouth. Wondering if he’s allowed to kiss him there, if he will allow _himself_ to kiss him there, or if that is pushing things too far.

Fortunately, he does not have to make the decision at all because Merlin cants up and presses their lips flush for an agonizing moment before licking into Arthur’s mouth, slick and filthy. 

Arthur dissolves into shudders, his hands all over Merlin’s skin, in his hair, shoved down the back of his trousers to make mauling fists in his flesh before Merlin curses and kicks out of those too. He’s fully naked then, so much blinding white spread out and _god,_ fuck, all for Arthur to mark up, to ruin, to claim for himself and for Camelot. 

“You’re so fucking lovely,” he chokes out against Merlin’s collarbone at some point. He says it without meaning to, but the way Merlin’s cock twitches and drips in the clumsy curl of his palm makes up for the smug, bitable twist of his lips, so Arthur supposes it’s ok. He kisses him deep, licks over his teeth, wonders how on _earth_ he’s managed to survive this long without Merlin totally naked in his bed while he grinds, fully clothed against his leg. 

“Are _you_ ever going to undress?” Merlin asks, fingers tangled in the undone laces of Arthur’s tunic, raking nails over his chest until his skin turns pink beneath the sparse hair.

“Oh, eventually,” Arthur says as he plays with Merlin’s cock, loving how wet he is at the tip, how _hard,_ how he gasps and shudders and fails to maintain composure no matter how hard he tries. Arthur has never touched another man like this. In fact, he hasn’t touched _anyone_ like this, and it’s positively maddening how wonderful it is to track Merlin’s reactions, to see him come apart and flush and choke out breathless, tattered versions of his name like prayer. Arthur feels giddy and moved with power. “But I rather like this, seeing you all pitiful and exposed while I’m still in all my clothes. It’s making up for lost time, I suppose. After all, you see me undressed every day. _”_

 _“_ Yes,” Merlin murmurs, pressing his face into Arthur’s neck, scouring his lips raw on the stubble there, mouthing aimlessly while his hips roll. “But not like _this._ I don’t—I’ve never gotten to touch.” 

Arthur lets go of his cock to smear shining stickiness up over his stomach, up to the marks he left with his own mouth on Merlin’s chest. “Have you thought about it?” he asks in a low voice, stomach dropping at the thought, cock leaking in his trousers as he ruts into Merlin’s hip. “Touching me, I mean.” Merlin groans and writhes, reaching for his cock before Arthur catches his wrist and pins it to the bed. “Tell me.” 

“Arthur—every fucking _day_ I dream of touching you,” he confesses, eyes flashing open to reveal slits of terrible sapphire. “I love—I’m _happy_ to be your servant. But sometimes it’s fucking torture. Seeing you all the time, caring for you without _having_ you, wanting you but knowing—“ 

It’s too raw, too lovely, and Arthur cannot stand to hear it without letting his own wreck of confessions spill forth so he silences Merlin with a rough kiss, fucking his tongue into his mouth as he reaches for his cock and curls his fingers around it, tugging Merlin off until he spills over Arthur’s fist in burning ribbons, hot like fire, sudden like a revelation. 

There are tears on Arthur’s cheeks when he pulls away, and he furiously rubs them off on his tunic, heart pounding in overwhelm as Merlin lies there all boneless and beautiful and covered in come-slick bruises. 

Arthur can’t stay away for long, it turns out, not while he’s hard and still positively mad with longing. In seconds he’s settling back down, pressing into Merlin and touching him all over, manipulating his loose-limbed body andunlacing his own trousers so he can touch himself, mouth fixed over Merlin’s still racing pulse point. 

Merlin moans along with him as he finishes, shooting over his marked up chest, so their come mingles in a white, sticky mess. Merlin reaches between them with tremulous fingers and rubs it in, down into his own thick, dark pubic hair and up as far as his Adam’s apple. It’s filthy and gorgeous and Arthur watches intently, frowning because he doesn’t think it’s normal to be pushed to the brink of tears so many fucking times during sex. 

“Are you alright?” Merlin asks after a few seconds, eyes narrowed as he studies Arthur, gently guides him off so he may lay beside him, their legs twined. Arthur can’t answer, and he thinks Merlin is about to give him a hard time for his sudden choked up silence but instead he rolls over and curls his arms around Arthur, drawing his body close, burying his face in his hair as Arthur hides in the ditch of his neck, where things are dark and smell of his own spit, which is oddly stabilizing. “It’s ok,” Merlin says gently, voice a thunder-low rumble against Arthur’s flushed cheek. “You can touch me. You’re allowed to touch me. You’re allowed to want this.” 

Arthur chews his cheek so hard he tastes blood, and clutches back at Merlin, even though he can’t make himself speak. There is nothing to say, at the same time there is _too_ much. _If my father were still alive, I wouldn’t be allowed to. If my father were alive, I might have already hit you now, stormed off to drown this in wine, in fire, in regret. But my father isn't alive. And you—you are still here._ He bites it all back, though, and distracts himself by counting Merlin’s ribs beneath his fingers, inhaling from his skin, rubbing his lips back and forth over the swollen bite marks he’s left all over it. Merlin winces at some point and Arthur reels away, suddenly jolted back into a version of his body which remembers how to speak. “Shit. I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks, rubbing over a particularly dark bruise beneath Merlin’s clavicle. 

Merlin smiles and shakes his head. “Not in any way I didn't want to be hurt.” 

Arthur deflates a little bit, letting out a breath. “Good. Then you won’t mind mucking the stalls tonight before dinner.” 

Merlin makes an affronted face, and finally, Arthur’s mouth splits into a reflexive, honest smile. “Jesus, Merlin, I’m kidding. I’m not planning on getting out of _bed_ until dinner.”

Merlin’s mouth softens into a smug grin. “And you’d like me to keep it warm for you, I imagine?” 

“Obviously,” Arthur says through a yawn. He shifts because there’s something jabbing into his side, and when he digs it out he realizes it’s Merlin’s godforsaken awful neckerchief, rolled up into a little ball. “Oh good, we _finally_ found a use for this stupid thing,” he says, wadding it up and using it to mop the come up off Merlin’s chest. Then, he ties it back around his neck. “Now you have a _reason_ to hide your neck,” he announces tugging the scarf down a bit so that he can kiss one of the marks. 

Merlin sighs contentedly, crossing their ankles like swords. “But not from you.” 

“No. Not from me,” Arthur agrees, before fixing his mouth in place to create a brand new stain, for good measure. 


End file.
